


Credence

by Mephilia_Venus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, aspects of Junkenstein's Revenge characters, but it was only a matter of time until I wrote, the Moicy paranormal investigators au that nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mephilia_Venus/pseuds/Mephilia_Venus
Summary: Angela Ziegler wasn't expecting a reassignment to Blackwatch. She wasn't expecting her role to be debunking the research of her own colleague, the mysterious Moira O'Deorain. And she certainly wasn't expecting to become embroiled in a conspiracy encompassing Overwatch, Blackwatch, and forces beyond the realm of science. But as both women will come to understand, the truth is rarely pure and never simple. Trust no one.





	1. Chapter 1

### "The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future."

#### Overwatch Headquarters, Zurich - The Basement (aka Covert Ops, aka Blackwatch Division)

Angela Ziegler's footsteps echoed off the linoleum floor as she slowly walked the dim hallway. So this was where Blackwatch was run from, sequestered away in a glorified basement where it couldn't touch the shiny, PR-boosting optimism of the rest of Overwatch headquarters. The glorified basement she had been reassigned to an hour earlier.

Captain Amari had stressed that Angela's new role was a vital one, and that she had been chosen _because_ of her field record, not despite it. For all the respect Angela held for the older woman, she couldn't help but still not be convinced.

_"How familiar are you with one of our Blackwatch agents, Moira O'Deorain?"_

_The question surprised Angela. Blackwatch was about as far from her own division as one could get in terms of activities. The most interaction Angela tended to have with its agents was when they were sent to her for patching up. Still, the name caught in her memory._

_"Entirely by reputation," Angela conceded. "But I've heard from a few other agents who have worked with her before. She's supposedly brilliant. Our individual research encompasses similar theories, although we haven't met in person."_

_She didn't mention the nicknames that had gone along with the descriptions. "Dr. Moreau" had been among the kindest._

The hallway felt narrower than it truly was, although Angela couldn't testify as to whether that was the shadows or her own spinning head. The offices she walked past were all either disused or unoccupied; a Blackwatch assignment didn't typically entail much desk work. She found part of herself hoping Agent O'Deorain might be similarly out, but no, there was a light coming from beneath the door at the very end of the hallway.

_"I assume you're speaking of Agent O'Deorain's thesis on the harmful and restorative properties of nanobiotic technology?" Captain Amari clarified. Angela nodded, and for the first time since she had entered the room, the figure standing at the window beside Captain Amari's desk turned. Angela's already-nervous heart skipped a beat when she recognized the face of Captain Morrison._

_"That's what we've let her go public with," he said, taking over after a nod from Captain Amari. "But Agent O'Deorain has a fixation bordering on obsession with a different field of research, one she's begun to devote more and more of her funding to pursuing instead of what we recruited her for."_

Angela stood before the door to Agent O'Deorain's office, taking a moment to straighten her blazer and tuck as much of her pale blonde hair back from her face as she could. She debated whether to conceal the small Star of David pendant hanging around her throat, but decided to leave it exposed. The connection she felt to it was more familial than religious, anyhow.

She rapped her knuckles against the door, wondering if she would have to knock louder for what sounded like some sort of industrial dance music blaring from the other side. But the song shut off almost immediately, and Angela heard a deep voice with a slight Irish lilt call out, "Sorry, nobody down here but Blackwatch's most unwanted." Angela took that as an invitation to enter.

Agent O'Deorain's back was turned to her when Angela opened the door, but Angela's eyes were drawn to her fiery ginger hair, slicked back and carefully cropped. Angela's presence wasn't immediately acknowledged, so she performed a quick scout of the office - nearly every available piece of space was cluttered with files and papers, along with several tackboards pinned to the walls that were only missing tangles of red string. A half-finished DNA chart made its home right alongside the poster for a David Bowie album, and as Angela took another tentative step inside, she noticed a somewhat beat-up copy of what appeared to be _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ resting on the edge of Agent O'Deorain's desk. Angela thought back on the EDM she had just heard pounding from within this same office, and all she could conclude was that none of what she was taking in was helping her understand Agent O'Deorain in the slightest.

The other woman finally looked up as Angela drew closer to her desk. Breathing in, Angela smiled and said, "Agent O'Deorain, my name is Agent Angela Ziegler. I believe I'm going to be working with you for the foreseeable future."

Agent O'Deorain was silent, looking her up and down. Angela couldn't help but fixate on her eyes - one such a light brown it could be mistaken for red, the other icy blue. Heterochromia, the portion of Angela's mind that had never left medical school noted.

"Well, isn't it nice to be so highly regarded?" Agent O'Deorain finally remarked as she stood. She was easily a full head taller than Angela. As if she could read Angela's earlier thoughts, she added, "What did you do to get landed with me, Agent Ziegler?" She drew out the syllables of Angela's name as she went about clearing a space on her desk. Angela found herself flustered for some reason by that.

"I don't view it that way, Agent O'Deorain," she said as she attempted to keep a neutral face. "Judging by the content of your research, I'm looking forward to exchanging theories with you."

Agent O'Deorain's eyebrows shot upwards. "Then either you weren't given a proper briefing, or you're trying to dance around the fact that our superiors are tired of attempting to debunk my theories and have sent you to do it for them."

Angela gritted her teeth, inhaling through her nose. "Agent O'Deorain, I assure you there's no need for hostilities. I am a fully qualified doctor and field agent -"

"Yes, I did my homework," the other woman said. "Top honors from both universities you studied at, including a rather impressive paper on nanobiotic technology considering that you wrote it in the days where the field was considered little more than a laboratory plaything. I particularly enjoyed your theory about how nanites might be utilized to bring severely wounded individuals back from the brink of death, although if I told you all my reasons why, you would likely be handing in your resignation within the hour. In short, Agent Ziegler, we are already acquainted, so allow me to cut to the chase."

She located the file she had been searching for, handing it off to Angela. "Say hello to our first assignment. Officially, we're conducting an inquiry into a rash of nocturnal killings that have been occurring within the affluent King's Row neighborhood of London. Unofficially, we're uncovering the real culprit behind them."

Angela knew it was bait, but she couldn't help rising to it. "What's the difference?"

Agent O'Deorain smirked. "What you should be asking is why a case that would normally have Overwatch written all over it spent two weeks being sifted through the tiers of bureaucracy before I happened to rescue it. Scotland Yard is in over their heads, but our superiors only agreed to send us in after I called them on it." After a dramatic pause, she added, "Almost as though they wanted it buried despite its very much alive condition."

Paging through the case file, Angela frowned at that insinuation. "Whatever reasons Overwatch has for not prioritizing this case, I doubt a vague cover-up attempt is one of them."

Letting out a laugh, Agent O'Deorain responded, "Then you're going to love hearing my theory as to why four different King's Row residents have turned up over the last fortnight with a bizarre lack of blood remaining in their corpses. I daresay the autopsy reports in that file will make for some entertaining reading."

Angela turned back to Agent O'Deorain as the other woman tossed her jacket over her shoulder, making for the door. "The corpses were exsanguinated?" Angela asked. "By what?" She squinted down at the first autopsy photo, a force of habit despite her contacts. "There's no sign of any needle markings."

Agent O'Deorain grinned a Cheshire Cat smile back at her. "You'll just have to show up for our flight to London if you want to know what I think. I sincerely hope you have a pleasant rest of your day, Agent Ziegler."

She closed the door behind her, leaving Angela alone in her (theirs now, Angela wondered?) office. So, that was Moira O'Deorain. Angela was surprised to find herself grinning at the Blackwatch agent's parting words, but she reminded herself of why she was truly here.

_"Unorthodox projects?" Angela frowned. "If you don't mind my asking, Captain, what could possibly be too unorthodox for even Overwatch to consider pursuing?"_

_Captain Morrison's face was grave as he responded, "Recently, Agent O'Deorain has begun pushing the boundaries of what we consider to be scientific inquiry. Some of her newer proposals are rooted in territory you could even consider... supernatural."_

_Supernatural. There was a word that seemed determined to never let Angela put it behind her._

_Pretending to be confused, she asked, "Supernatural? Surely Agent O'Deorain isn't suggesting Overwatch dedicate resources to studying alchemy and lunar cycles?" The look Captain Amari exchanged with Captain Morrison didn't set her at ease._

_"Just remind her that we offer her funding to pursue decidedly realistic theories," Captain Amari said, clearly choosing her words carefully. "And if need be, alert us if you feel she is becoming too engrossed in these interests for her own good."_

_Angela felt as though she had been struck in the gut as she realized what was being asked of her. "Captain Amari, I... I'm not a spy. I don't think this is my area of expertise."_

_Her superior shook her head, tapping the _wadjet_ tattooed beneath her right eye. "Don't think of it like that, Agent Ziegler. If all goes well, your reports won't need to concern Agent O'Deorain's activities at all. Overwatch's best interests are what all of us hold at heart. We just feel that perhaps a partner might help keep Agent O'Deorain more grounded in her own pursuit of that."_

As she took another look around the office, Angela felt like that was going to be easier said than done.


	2. London - Day One

### "To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect."

**Flight 1255, ZRH to LHR, somewhere above the English Channel**

Angela had been on her fair share of airplanes, but she could say with little room for doubt that she had never seen anyone fly quite like Agent O'Deorain.

It seemed impossible for the other woman to focus on one task at a time. The flight wasn't even an hour, but for the duration of it, Agent O'Deorain had turned the radius of her seat, tray table, and those of the empty seat between her and Angela into her personal command center. Directly in front of her was her laptop, the same dog-eared copy of _Dorian Gray_ from her office that she would occasionally read a page or two of in-between typing the beginnings of what Angela assumed was their case report, and a steaming cup of Earl Grey resting dangerously close to the aforementioned laptop. Angela had brought her copy of the case file to read through, but Agent O'Deorain's significantly more marked-up original rested between them, covered in scrawled notes Angela couldn't even begin to make heads or tails of. Agent O'Deorain was also once again listening to music at such a volume that Angela was amazed she could focus on any one thing, much less three at the same time (even over the steady drone of the plane engine, Angela could pick up the synths of Eurythmics leaking from Agent O'Deorain's earbuds. A classical woman, then).

Shaking her head, Angela looked away from her colleague and back at the autopsy report in front of her. Agent O'Deorain had been right, the circumstances were... unusual, to say the least. There was nothing linking the victims; they had all been of different genders, races, and ages (the most recent, one Chloe Thompson, had been a student at a Sixth Form school). Angela did note that only humans seemed to have been targeted so far, but the exsanguination aspect tossed a wrench into the gears of an omnic assailant theory. No, something was telling her another human had done this. Would do this again, if she and Agent O'Deorain couldn't succeed where Scotland Yard had failed.

A voice rang through the cabin, informing them that their descent into London airspace had begun. Angela stowed the file back in her purse, and was wondering if she should save a flight attendant from having to ask Agent O'Deorain to do the same when she felt it - like a blast of chilled air had been aimed at the back of her neck. It trickled down Angela's spine, racing through her veins, as though her blood had been replaced with liquid nitrogen. An invisible weight pressed onto her shoulders, and for a split second, Angela could have sworn she heard whispering in her ear. Her hands clenched around the armrests of her seat, and she forced herself to breathe. _"Focus on the necklace, Angela, focus on the necklace."_

"Miss, are you alright?" a voice registered in her ear. Angela looked up, and saw a flight attendant blinking at her with concern.

Forcing herself to smile, Angela nodded, "Yes, thank you. I just felt a bit light-headed."

The flight attendant smiled. "Well, once we're on the ground, I can bring you some food or water if you need." Angela shook her head, and the flight attendant tapped Agent O'Deorain on the shoulder before leaving them. "Miss, I really do need you to pack your belongings away. The descent will only take a few minutes." Agent O'Deorain made an exaggerated gesture of removing her earbuds, although she complied after another moment.

But the glance she exchanged with Angela made it clear - whatever had affected Angela, Agent O'Deorain had felt it too.

**London, King's Row**

"You didn't mention yesterday that Overwatch _has_ already investigated this case," Angela remarked as they crossed the street towards the crime scene.

Agent O'Deorain rolled her eyes. "Because one could barely call it that. When the first body turned up two weeks ago, an Overwatch agent was sent in at Scotland Yard's request. The most 'investigation' he got up to was discovering a fish and chips stand on Hanbury Street that's apparently to die for, if you'll pardon the expression. Not even 24 hours later, he was called back in with no explanation, and an attempt was made to bury the case in the unsolved archives until I found it a week ago after the third victim."

"That's not what I meant," Angela pressed. "Overwatch did send someone else in, a medical examiner. She was in charge of conducting the autopsies, which is why I was surprised at how inconclusive the reports were. The latest victim hasn't undergone one yet, though."

That received an approving nod from Agent O'Deorain. "I see you were doing your research."

Angela couldn't resist bantering back, "Better than you were expecting, or better than you hoped?"

The officer guarding the crime scene moved to stop them from passing, but they flashed their Overwatch identifications, and his posture straightened when he stood aside to let them continue. As they approached who Angela assumed was the head of this investigation, Agent O'Deorain responded, "I'll let you know once we're through with the easy part."

The police chief turned to greet them as they walked up, a middle-aged man with graying brown hair who Agent O'Deorain still had a centimeter on in height. "Agents O'Deorain and Ziegler?," he confirmed as he shook both their hands. "I'm Chief Inspector Oxton."

Agent O'Deorain began exchanging notes with him, but Angela's attention was drawn to the graffiti sprayed upon the side of the alleyway they now stood in. Several variations of omnic rights slogans covered the brick wall in a violent rainbow of color, the mural they surrounded of two clenched human and omnic hands beautiful in its own way. Whoever had done this was talented.

"Ah, that," Inspector Oxton remarked as he followed Angela's gaze. "For the past few months, there's been a gang of street artists leaving sprays like that all over the Row. Trying to catch up to them has been a whole other headache. Despite our best efforts, they're always one step ahead of us, and now with this case - well, you can guess which one we've dedicated more resources towards. As I was telling your partner, we think the most recent victim was one of them. She was probably coming back to add on to the initial graffiti when whatever did this to her caught her."

"You think the victims were exsanguinated where they were found?" Angela asked. She took another look around the area the police had marked off, but there was no telltale chemical scent of any attempts to clean the sort of bloodstains that would leave. As Angela did so, she could have sworn that a girl standing at the front of the small crowd gawking at the police activity was looking directly at her and Agent O'Deorain... but Angela blinked, and she was gone.

"There's no sign they were moved in any way," Inspector Oxton confirmed. "Given the attacks all happened late at night, it's not impossible the victims were incapacitated before they could cry out for help." He grimaced as he added on, "A handful of more sensational publications are trying to run the story as the work of some Omnic-Ripper. Tensions between humans and omnics in this city are already higher than many would like, and this hasn't been helping."

"You don't approve of that theory?" Agent O'Deorain inquired. Angela and Inspector Oxton shook their heads at the same time.

"I say a human did this, but the Crisis is still fresh in a lot of people's minds," Inspector Oxton explained. "It's easy to sell papers by exploiting prejudices. Even before, London was never fantastic in its treatment of 'em, but the way I see it, we can't keep holding everything that happened against the bots forever. I lost my sister in the Crisis, but nothing's going to bring her back, least of all that."

"I concur," Angela agreed. "I would say we're looking for a human culprit, and I'm sure Agent O'Deorain would be interested in seeing what profiles your team has come up with. I would also like to conduct the autopsy on the body of the latest victim."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Inspector Oxton said after a moment's thought. "We'll have to prepare the body, but everything should be in order by tomorrow morning. Until then, you two can head along to wherever you're staying unless something breaks. We're grateful to have Overwatch's help on this, I'll tell you that much."

Angela waited until they were a block or so away before voicing the trouble on her mind. "If Overwatch sent people in before us, why was that man acting as though we were the first agents he had come into contact with?"

"I'm not sure either of us will like the probable answers corresponding to that," Agent O'Deorain said. They made for the nearest underground depot, but before the two agents could descend, a teenage girl with spiky brown hair stepped in front of them with the clear intent of cutting them off. The same girl Angela had seen watching them before, she realized.

"You two are from Overwatch?" the girl began, her voice betraying her nervousness despite her attempt at looking casual.

"We don't give out autographs," Agent O'Deorain deadpanned as she pushed past the girl. Angela watched the girl's eyes widen as she moved in front of them again, an increased desperation about her this time.

"Please!" she cried. "My name is Lena Oxton. I saw what... what happened to Chloe." Lena looked down, her face paling as she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her blue hoodie. Her paint-stained hoodie, Angela noted, as Lena continued, "I can't tell my dad, but I thought maybe you two might believe me."

It was as though some kind of switch had been flipped in Agent O'Deorain at those words. "What about it might be so difficult to believe?" she asked, her focus now for Lena and the prospect of a lead.

Lena's eyes darted back between Agent O'Deorain and Angela and the direction of the crime scene they had just left. "Chloe _was_ attacked," she said after breathing in. "But I'm not sure it was by something human."

**The Knight and Chapel Pub, King's Row**

"Here's what happened," Lena began, tapping her knuckles against the dark wood of the table as Angela began recording. "I admit it, I run with the Tracers. So did Chloe. But it's not like our message is anything wrong, and I'm not going to give anyone else up!" she added on, her face turning cross for a moment.

"That's not what we're concerned about," Angela reassured her. "Although, I feel like I should still advocate for you to be doing something with your nights other than wandering the streets and spraying graffiti." This comment earned her an indignant look from Lena and a not-so-subtle cough from Agent O'Deorain.

"Please continue, Lena," her colleague said. Lena scooped several chips into her mouth before continuing (apparently the girl's story wasn't so horrific as to have affected her appetite, Angela thought).

"We all did the mural last week, but Chloe and I wanted to go back and add on a few more details," Lena explained. "You know, touch up the coloring, make sure people really _had_ to look at it when they walked by. I knew from my dad there had been some incidents along the Row, but we thought we would be safe if we were together. Guess it goes to show, huh? We got there just after midnight, and for about an hour, nothing too weird happened. But then I left for just a second to toss our empty paints, and when I came back-" She broke off, her eyes widening as she recalled the memory.

"There was a man - or at least, it sounded like a man - in the alleyway with Chloe. At first, it looked like he was just talking to her. I figured he was probably coming back drunk from a pub, so I was about to tell him to bugger off, but Chloe was actually listening to him. Well, she was facing him and hadn't already told him to bugger off, and coming from her that was about as much respect as you normally got. I didn't interrupt them is what I mean, and as horrible as it might be to say... it's probably right lucky I didn't." Lena's face fell as she admitted this.

"I don't know if he did something to her or not. From where I was watching, it didn't look like he touched her. But Chloe just collapsed, and I mean down like a bag of bricks. You ever seen one of those old movies where a person gets knocked on the head and goes down instantly? Like that, only again, they were a good few feet apart. And crazy as it sounds, I swear... I thought I saw his eyes glowing. And I know you'll probably tell me it was the streetlights, but there wasn't anything natural about it. He didn't even know I was there, but I felt like I was being pulled toward him somehow."

Agent O'Deorain nodded from where she sat next to Angela. Had she heard a story like this before, to act so familiar?

"That was why I didn't do anything. It was like I was in some kind of trance. Otherwise, you can believe I would have shouted for help then and there. Once Chloe was down, he fell on her - not like that!" she clarified as Angela sucked in a tense breath. "He - I saw him go for her neck. I didn't understand what he was doing at first, but then I heard the sound. He was... he _drained_ her. Somehow. Once I realized it was her _blood_..." Lena grew overwhelmed, gasping out the last word. Angela looked to Agent O'Deorain, prepared to force the subject's closure if the alternative was giving a teenage girl an anxiety attack in the middle of a crowded pub. But then Lena looked up once more, seemingly determined to finish what she had started.

"All of that happened right there in the alleyway, and she never moved once. The whole thing took maybe five minutes from beginning to end. He never even once looked my way, and something tells me if he had... I don't think I'd be here right now." She shuddered, and Angela had to fight the urge to embrace the poor girl. "She was a good friend," Lena finished. "I had a bit of a thing for her last year, but Chloe wasn't into girls like that, so I got over it. We were going to go up to Scotland for the Easter holiday next month. She didn't deserve to die!"

"Did you see the man do anything else?" Agent O'Deorain asked without warning. Angela glared at her, but Lena didn't seem to mind.

Thinking for a moment, she added, "Yeah, actually. When he was done... draining Chloe. He stored a little bit of her blood inside some kind of container. I couldn't see what it was made out of, but by that point, I was so scared I barely understood what was happening. He made sure to tuck it inside his jacket before he left, though. That was the other creepy part - he walked to the edge of the alleyway, but then it was like he just melted into the shadows. And the second he was gone, I could move again. I ran all the way home. I've kept my window locked for the past two nights." Lena leaned in closer, lowering her voice as she said, "I know what it all sounds like. Even if I could tell my folks without them putting me under house arrest over the business with the Tracers, my dad would probably say I just watch too many 20th Century monster shows. But I swear that's what I saw."

"I believe you, Lena," Agent O'Deorain said. "I've heard far stranger accounts than yours. Thank you for sharing with us. You've helped our investigation more than you realize." Angela wasn't quite so sure of that, but the words seemed to put Lena at ease.

"You really mean that?" she asked. "I just want to help get justice for Chloe. I can help however you need me to-"

"Right now, we just want you to get home safely and _stay there_ ," Angela emphasized before Agent O'Deorain could enlist Lena in a stakeout. "No more midnight outings. At least until whoever killed Chloe is put away?"

Lena didn't look happy about that addition, but she still nodded. "Deal."

They paid for their dinners, making sure Lena was in a cab back to her house before turning to each other outside the pub. Night had fallen while they had been listening to Lena's story, and Angela wasn't reassured by the strange expression Agent O'Deorain wore as her eyes followed the taillights of Lena's cab. "You don't really believe she wasn't hallucinating or misremembering what happened, do you?" Angela asked. "What she described - I can buy that the killer potentially extracts the blood to sell on the black market, but that would be with a syringe, or possibly even a small med-bot. If an incision was simply made into the jugular, particularly if Chloe was still alive at the time, that alley would have been covered in blood."

Agent O'Deorain didn't respond right away. "We can get to the underground depot quicker if we cut through here," she finally said, turning towards the narrow alley running alongside the pub. "And if we encounter any rogue black market organ thieves, you can say 'I told you so'," she added at Angela's disdainful expression.

"Fine," Angela huffed. The lure of her hotel room's bed was growing stronger with each passing minute, and she didn't want to conduct an autopsy on a poor night's sleep. But as they stepped into the dim lighting of the alleyway, Angela noticed Agent O'Deorain reaching into her jacket pocket and retrieving a strange item - a small bag of sunflower seeds Angela had seen her buy at the airport earlier that morning.

"What are you-" Angela started to ask, but Agent O'Deorain tossed a handful of seeds onto the ground before Angela could finish the question. Angela heard it then - a scuffling noise from the direction Agent O'Deorain had thrown the seeds in, by the dumpsters from the pub. Angela sucked in a breath as a shadowed figure shot out from behind the dumpster, seemingly trying to collect the seeds in its hand. But Agent O'Deorain was faster.

To say that she _lunged_ was the only proper way to describe it. Before Angela could exhale, Agent O'Deorain had the figure pinned against the brick wall of the alleyway, planting her feet into the ground to hold it in place as it let out a shout. Angela cried, "Agent O'Deorain, what are you doing?"

Her colleague paid her no mind, her focus entirely on the dark-haired man straining against her grip. "Où est-elle?" Agent O'Deorain barked, and Angela's mind was left scrambling for a moment before recognizing the words as French. _"Where is she?"_

The man's only answer was another hoarse cry as he attempted to clench his fingers around Agent O'Deorain's wrist. His skin was nearly bone-white, his frame shaped by a lankiness Angela's medical opinion didn't chalk up to genetics. "Agent O'Deorain!" Angela exclaimed once more, storming up to her.

"Maybe another language will do the trick?" Agent O'Deorain snarled, and the utter coldness of her voice sent a tendril of fear snaking through Angela. "Wo ist sie? So che tu sai! Unde este Amélie?" _"Where is she? I know you know! Where is Amélie?"_

Angela acted on instinct, shoving Agent O'Deorain backwards and catching her off guard as she instinctively moved to balance herself. The man slid down the wall, wheezing in pain as he backed away from them on his hands. Angela rushed to his side, asking, "Sir, are you alright?" just as Agent O'Deorain warned, "Agent Ziegler, keep back!"

The man met Angela's eyes, opening his mouth in what she assumed would be a response to her question. But instead - he _hissed_ at her. Angela stopped dead in her tracks as the sound rasped from his throat, as she registered the unnatural dilation of his watery brown eyes. The strange shaping of his exposed canines as they flashed in the low light.

"Stay away from her!" Agent O'Deorain called out. The man glared up at both of them from where he lay sprawled on the ground, and after several tense seconds, Angela had to break his gaze even as Agent O'Deorain advanced towards him. Her shadow moved across the wall of the alleyway towards the man, and another guttural sound escaped his throat. 

He fled for the exit faster than Angela would have expected from someone in his physical condition. Agent O'Deorain chased after him, Angela following after a moment, but he was gone by the time they reached the street.

Angela heard Agent O'Deorain mutter a curse in Gaelic under her breath. "That could have gone better," the Irishwoman remarked.

"What exactly was 'that'?" Angela demanded as they walked towards the underground depot. "How did you know that man? And who on Earth is Amélie?" 

Agent O'Deorain's shoulders tensed as Angela spoke the name into the night air, but she remained staring ahead, her focus now seeming to solely rest on reaching their hotel. Angela knew the signs of an oncoming brood well enough, and she hadn't been affiliated with Agent O'Deorain for long enough to know whether the woman was the sort who kept that to herself or lashed out when she was angry. Although Angela didn't enjoy the sense of being both physically and metaphorically in the dark on the matter, she also knew she wasn't likely to get anything out of Agent O'Deorain right now if she didn't feel like sharing.

All the way to the hotel was spent in silence. Angela's mind filled the void by replaying every second of the incident in the alleyway, and recalling Lena's story. Four exsanguinated victims, and medically improbable autopsy reports to go along with them. What could one even call a logical conclusion here, when the seemingly obvious one that Angela was beginning to fear Agent O'Deorain indeed favored was... Angela couldn't even make herself think the word.

 _"Let it all be a misunderstanding,"_ she tried to ground in logic. After all, the man in the alley could have been an addict (even if that didn't explain the way his eyes had gleamed, the way his teeth had seemed more like fangs). The medical examiner might have overlooked some crucial detail in the autopsies (even though Angela had worked under the woman personally, and knew her to be the sort who would triple-run tests if she possessed the means). Angela couldn't let it all point to what it seemed to be.

Hadn't she run far enough?

**The Crown Jewel Hotel, West End**

Angela looked up from her laptop, her head still swimming despite her attempts to gather her thoughts within her own case report. Help rein Moira O'Deorain in, that was what Captain Amari had assigned her to do. Well, Angela had certainly made a first day of that.

She started as a knock on the door cut through the otherwise silent hotel room. Angela closed her laptop before standing from the bed, calling out, "Who is it?" as she crossed the room.

"Elisabeth Bathory," came Agent O'Deorain's response from the other side of the door, and Angela couldn't help the laugh that escaped her mouth at that mental image. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who had been reflecting on the absurdity of the whole situation, after all.

Opening the door, Angela was greeted by the sight of a slightly more casually-dressed Agent O'Deorain, meaning the Irishwoman had foregone the jacket and tie that had rounded out her ensemble earlier. Angela's eyes were drawn to the sight of Agent O'Deorain's bare forearms, the sleeves of her black shirt now rolled up to her elbows. She had to admit, it was... an extremely good look.

What surprised Angela though, was the sincerity in Agent O'Deorain's voice as she said, "Agent Ziegler, I would like to apologize for what happened earlier. If you would care to join me, I was planning on getting a drink at the pub next door. I can offer an explanation there."

The offer was tempting, Angela wouldn't lie to herself. Off-duty drinks with coworkers - when _was_ the last time she had done something like that?

Still, she shook her head. "I'm afraid I have to pass, Agent O'Deorain. I would be glad to hear you out in the morning, but right now, I think I need to rest." Angela was almost certain she was looking too far into the flicker of what might have been disappointment in Agent O'Deorain's eyes. Almost.

"Well, if you get tired of puzzling over those autopsy reports, you'll know where to find me," the Irishwoman remarked, turning to leave.

"Don't worry, I think we both agree there's not enough in them to lose sleep over," Angela said, earning a rueful laugh from Agent O'Deorain as she walked towards the elevators. After a moment, Angela called after her, "Good night!" Her colleague's response to that was a wave without looking back.

And Angela couldn't suppress the slight twinge of guilt in her stomach.

Closing the door, Angela wasn't much in favor of returning to her write-up on the events that had transpired since their arrival in London. She spent a half-hearted hour transcribing the recording of Lena's story before deciding the rest of the report could wait until they made more progress. Rolling her neck, Angela could already tell she needed to release the tension that had been building in her muscles over the last several hours if she wanted a good night's sleep.

The hotel room shower was truly one-in-a-million in that it actually helped accomplish this purpose. Ideally, Angela would have preferred a bath, but the hot water against her skin felt wonderful in any form after the day she had been through. She could let her troubled thoughts dissipate with the steam, swirl down the drain with the suds of her shampoo.

Angela had wrapped herself in the plush white bathrobe hanging on the door and was toweling off her hair when she saw the light had turned off in the main part of her hotel room. Well, that was to be expected, she told herself. The switch was motion-sensing, after all. Angela waved her hand in front of the light switch for the main room, but nothing happened.

Frowning, she tried again. Still nothing. That was odd, especially since the light in the bathroom was working. Perhaps she needed to do it manually.

Stepping back into the hotel room, Angela walked over to the lamp beside her bed, pressing the button that rested in its base. Victory! A search around the room yielded no results in terms of a master light switch, but at least the lamp would give her a small pool of illumination until she could report the outage to the front desk in the morning.

Angela was about to close the curtains by her bed when she saw something strange out the window - the lights in the flat directly across from her hotel room seemed to be flickering on and off as well. What was more, there was a figure silhouetted at the window who didn't seem to be paying it mind in the slightest.

Unconsciously, Angela leaned in closer to the window's surface. She had taken her contacts out, but now it seemed as though the figure hadn't been inside the flat after all, simply standing on its balcony instead. The sight of the flat reminded Angela so much of her own back in Zurich, and of the little pang of homesickness she could never quite banish no matter how many times she was sent out on Overwatch business.

She blinked, and the figure was gone. That was strange. Had it been some trick of the lights in the flat, affecting the shadows as they spilled onto the balcony? Strangely, Angela felt a desire to open the window and breathe in the night air. Which was ridiculous of course, since the window couldn't open...

The figure dropped down in front of her before Angela could blink again. Eyes wide and bloodshot, staring into hers as the same man from the alleyway parted his mouth in an all-too-audible snarl that cut through the glass of the window like it was nothing more than air. The man from the alleyway, who was floating in midair, looking Angela right in the eyes as he reached out to tap on the window between them.

Angela's gut lurched, and she stumbled backwards, fighting the scream threatening to rise in her throat. It couldn't be, it wasn't possible, she must have already fallen asleep. But then she heard the sound of fingernails scraping against glass, slowly, deliberately. Now the man was smiling at her.

The anchor holding Angela to the floor broke, and within moments, she was outside in the hallway. Her heart pounded in her ears as she banged her fist on the door of the neighboring room, desperately trying to suck in air.

Agent O'Deorain's bewildered face greeted Angela as she pulled the door open. "Agent Ziegler? What are you-" She stopped as she caught sight of Angela's deathly pale face, the way her legs trembled as she leaned against the door frame.

"I think you should come inside," Agent O'Deorain said, moving to let Angela enter the room. Angela made it as far as the threshold before she broke, throwing her arms around Agent O'Deorain as the other woman stiffened at the sudden contact.

"He was here!" Angela gasped, wishing she could banish the memory of that horrible smile. "The man from before! He was outside my window, he's trying to get in!"

A moment passed where all Angela could hear was her own wild breathing, as she slowly realized the complete violation of personal boundaries she was inflicting upon her colleague right now. But then Agent O'Deorain looked out towards the hallway, sliding Angela's robe back onto her shoulder where it had begun to slip down. "Don't worry, Agent Ziegler. Nothing is getting inside this room."

Angela tried to steady herself as she asked, "Are you sure?" She couldn't bring herself to separate from the other woman just yet.

This time, Angela knew she wasn't misreading the steel in Agent O'Deorain's voice to be anything else as she swore, "Not if I can help it."

After several minutes, Angela was able to calm down enough to stand, breathe, have a cup of water. She couldn't bear the thought of returning to her own room just yet, though. She wasn't quite sure how to voice this without making it sound like an imposition, but Agent O'Deorain must have been able to read it in her face, because she asked, "Do you think you can handle being alone tonight?" Angela debated lying, but what would have been the point? She slowly shook her head.

"Then you take the bed. I've slept in chairs far less comfortable than that one," Agent O'Deorain decreed. And that was that.

Angela took her time after excusing herself to the bathroom, hovering over the sink until she stopped feeling nauseous every time her mind returned to the sight of the too-pale man staring her down like the prey she had realized herself to be. By the time she exited, Agent O'Deorain had moved a pillow and spare blanket to the armchair resting by the bed, but had left the majority of the bedding for Angela. "Thank you, Agent O'Deorain," Angela said in a quiet voice. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble."

"Moira is fine," the other woman responded. "I think we're past formalities now."

Sinking into the bed, Angela rolled onto her side as Agent O'Deorain - no, Moira - turned the light off. But she feared to close her eyes. For was that simply the sound of the guest in the room above this one walking across the floor, or a yellowed fingernail scratching against the curtained window? The heating vents of the hotel, or Angela's name hissed out on a breath smelling of rot?

"Amélie was my partner," came Moira's surprisingly soft voice. Angela shifted to look at the other woman sitting in the armchair. "We met four years ago, before I was affiliated with Overwatch. I was conducting research in Paris, where I saw her dance Salome in the Paris Opera Ballet's production. I had never seen anyone with so much passion, so visible it practically radiated from her the entire performance. The next day, I happened to meet her by chance at a cafe in Montmartre. From there, one thing led to another. Three years later, I brought her back there with the intention of proposing. But we took a shortcut, it was late at night - and something else intercepted us."

Angela's heart clenched as she realized what Moira was implying. "That man we saw in the alleyway... he took her?"

Moira nodded. "He was there. I fall asleep every night remembering their faces. There were four of them, and you've seen how they move. They immobilized us before the thought of calling for help could even cross our minds. But for some reason, they only wanted Amélie. I was frozen. I had to watch as they grabbed her and vanished into the night. You can imagine how helpful the police were. I had to take matters into my own hands, except I had no facts to confront, and none of the research I threw myself into in the days after offered me any hope. Until one of my more well-known papers landed on Ana Amari's desk."

"Nanobiotic technology," Angela nodded. "And its potential applications."

"Overwatch reached out to me expressing interest in testing the properties I had proposed," Moira elaborated. "Of course, your former department was already well underway as far as healing technology goes, but Blackwatch saw different ways biotech could be harnessed. In exchange for funding, they allow more freedom to pursue my experiments than Overwatch would, even though I ultimately still have to report to the same people as you. Until recently, I kept my pursuit of my more... _peculiar_ interests under the radar. But three months ago, I attempted to capture one of those creatures like the one we encountered alive. While I was unsuccessful, I still managed to obtain some of its DNA. Yet my proposal to conduct experiments on how biotech might affect it differently than a living human's DNA was rejected. When I tried to inquire as to why, I encountered the exact red tape I was promised wouldn't obstruct me in Blackwatch."

 _"That's what we've let her go public with."_ Captain Morrison's words rang in Angela's ears. "Someone at Blackwatch is trying to silence your research, then?" she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Moira scoffed. "Blackwatch, Overwatch, climb high enough and it's the same people running the show. The networks I've formed through both lines of my research are leading me to troubling conclusions about what Overwatch might be trying to cover up. Not just this investigation, but an entire trail of cases buried in the archives that were classified as unsolvable or inexplicable for seemingly no reason. At first, I only acquainted myself with the ones similar to my own experience. There are so many more though, Agent Ziegler. And this case would have ended up as one of them if whoever is pulling the strings had gotten their way."

Angela sat up, propping an elbow against the pillow. "You don't think it's Captain Amari?"

Shaking her head, Moira said, "I think she may be aware, but she's also the one who declared this case active again when I requested it. I would have pointed the finger at Captain Reyes. Except it's been months since he was killed, and if anything, I've found it even more difficult than before to hunt down answers. I suspect Overwatch would have already terminated my funding if it weren't for the _legitimate_ contributions I've been able to provide. You've simply been pulled into the agenda as their method of keeping an eye on me."

"I'm not a part of any agenda," Angela insisted, even as she thought back on her meeting with Captain Amari. "All I want is to solve this. Isn't that both our jobs?"

Moira leaned in closer to her, elbows resting on her knees. "I'm telling you this, Agent Ziegler, because you need to know. What you've seen tonight has pulled you much deeper into this than Overwatch planned. I have allies in most places where it matters - except Overwatch. Nothing has been able to break through that barrier, and nobody. This exists, Agent Ziegler, and I despise that all I truly know is that fact."

"But do you truly know?" Angela asked. "Why would Overwatch risk its entire reputation on something like what you're implying?"

"You tell me," Moira said. "But Overwatch has missions other than the ones it reveals to the public, on that I think we can both agree. Not even for my sake, but for Amélie's, I have to know what they're protecting that could be so important. _That_ is what drives me, Agent Ziegler, if Amari is curious to know. This assignment is the closest I've come in a year to the answers I need on how to bring Amélie back. Fear not, I have no intention of jeopardizing Overwatch's stake in it."

Moira fell silent, and Angela couldn't think of an adequate response. She shouldn't have been expected to know _all_ the circumstances, but Angela supposed she could understand why Moira seemed to have turned this into a personal crusade. Angela knew perfectly well what alternatives people turned to when they didn't want to face grief.

"I would like to help you, Moira," she said, and hoped the other woman could hear that she meant it. "But... I can't just accept this as reality the way you have. Overwatch was the dream that carried me for years. And what's more, I'm a doctor. If - creatures like this - truly exist, wouldn't someone else have learned the truth by now?"

Angela heard no response, and wondered if Moira had fallen asleep. After a moment though, the other woman sighed, "If only it were that simple."


	3. London - Day 2

### "This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last."

**Scotland Yard, Morgue**

"How are you holding up?"

Angela jerked upwards from where she had been finishing the autopsy, blood running cold before she recognized the voice that had interrupted her stitches.

"I was doing alright, until you felt the need to creep up on me without any kind of warning," she huffed, crossing her arms as she turned to face Moira.

Her colleague leaned against the doorway, her appearance all business as she nodded her head upwards. "I heard everything I needed from Oxton. I thought I might come down and see how things were coming along on the deceased front."

"Well, I admit, I had to conduct the autopsy in person to believe it," Angela conceded as she looked back at the body of Chloe Thompson. "Lena wasn't exaggerating. It would seem every last drop of blood was drained from the body. But the body itself is almost perfectly preserved - which should be more than improbable. Then there's the puncture wounds on the neck, again right where Lena's testimony said we would find them." Angela frowned, stripping off her gloves and tossing them into the nearest wastebasket. "I was able to use her saliva for a toxicology report, so if she was injected with some sort of paralyzing agent beforehand, we'll know soon enough."

"Remember what Lena said about that, though?" Moira reminded her. "Chloe's assailant was never close enough to incapacitate her. And since Chloe didn't have any prior medical conditions that might have caused her to spontaneously collapse and not respond all through the blood being drained from her veins, might I again put forward-"

"I heard your theory perfectly clear this morning," Angela cut her off. "But for the sake of a balanced investigation, I don't want our primary conclusion to be the most extreme one possible. I won't deny the phenomena we witnessed last night, but I also wouldn't blame Captain Amari if she threw our report in the garbage for suggesting that the killer could be a real - well -"

"It's not a foul term, Agent Ziegler," Moira said. " _Vampire_. If I can say it, you can as well. And make sure you keep a close watch on your autopsy report, unless you would like to see it replaced by one of your predecessor's abridged copies."

Angela sighed, trying to balance how ridiculous Moira's words sounded now in the brightly-lit realm of science that was the morgue, as opposed to how willing Angela had been to believe them last night. Portions of which she was already in the process of trying to erase from her memory forever.

Just because this was Moira's reality didn't mean Angela had to let herself be sucked into it as well. Right?

"Tell yourself otherwise all you like, but I'm not crazy, Agent Ziegler," Moira continued, as if she had once again been able to hear Angela's thoughts. "I would like to have the same capacity to doubt as you. My advice is to hold onto what you still can of it."

"Well then, what do you propose?" Angela asked. "I thought you took offense to the idea of my role as your partner to be keeping you in check."

Moira shook her head. "There would certainly be an issue if I had cause to believe you were directly interfering with my investigations. But I don't see harm in adopting a method of operations, so to speak. I handle the 'extreme', as you put it, conclusions. You can devise more scientifically acceptable alternatives that won't have Overwatch sending us in for psychiatric evaluation. Is that more to your preference?"

Raising an eyebrow, Angela prompted, "This proposed system would also extend to case files?"

"We can discuss the finer terms over food," Moira said. "Put the cadaver on ice and let's see if those fish and chips live up to Agent Foster's enthusiastic write-up."

**London, Whitechapel**

"Not that the history lesson isn't fascinating, but do you make an effort to learn all the most macabre facts possible?" Angela asked, cutting off Moira's detailed account of the 19th Century Whitechapel murders. "Or, wait, don't tell me-" she began before biting into the last of her meal. "You think they never managed to catch the Ripper because he was also a vampire?"

"Actually, I think the Ripper never got caught because _she_ was a woman, but that's an entirely different discussion," Moira responded as they continued their traversal through the outdoor market. "One I can be gracious enough to not subject you to if you would like a change in conversation."

"Well, it seems I can talk you down after all," Angela commented to a smirk from Moira. Having this first true break since their arrival in London felt strange after the wild blur that had been the last twenty-four hours. It seemed Angela's impromptu overnight stay in Moira's hotel room was to be confined to the realm of "not to be discussed unless brought up again", which Angela was more than fine with. And that had left her with her first true chance to get an idea of just who Moira _was_.

An individual woman, that much was clear. Not even the soft purple light of the evening could conceal the thoughts running at breakneck pace behind Moira's eyes. Her face betrayed all and nothing at once, in that Angela was certain what Moira was presenting now was nowhere near the wounds she had, for some reason, sliced open for Angela last night. Yet this side of the Irishwoman felt genuine as well - that she could walk through a city like London and remark on the architecture in just the same casual tone she used to point out the sight of one of history's most infamous unsolved murders. While an unusual interest perhaps, there wasn't much trace of the mad scientist Angela had heard discussed of in gossiping whispers.

Perhaps this was a partnership she could see working out, after all.

Angela wandered over to a nearby stall selling scarves in all colors and fabrics, running her fingers through one of soft, snowy white cashmere. "If you want it, you should get it," Moira commented from behind her, snapping Angela out of her reverie.

"You know, why not?" Angela agreed, unhooking the scarf and bringing it up to the vendor as Moira's phone rang. Her colleague stepped to the side to answer the call while Angela purchased the scarf and wrapped it around her neck, tucking the spare fabric beneath her gray trench coat. She supposed she looked a soft monochrome next to Moira's tailored black outline against the darkening sky. Angela doubted she would ever be able to pull off a suit the way the Irishwoman could, though...

"Of course. We'll be right there," she heard Moira say as Angela drew closer.

"Is everything alright?" Angela asked, a cloud of worry reforming in her mind when she saw the troubled expression that had overtaken Moira's face. "Has there been progress on the case?"

"In a sense," Moira muttered. "That was Lena."

It took a moment just for that information to process. "You - you gave her your phone number?" Angela asked, aghast. "That's the exact opposite of keeping her out of the investigation!" Her voice rose in pitch on the end of the sentence beyond her control, and Angela bit back the next several words she wanted to say so as not to sound like a demented bird.

"And it's a good thing I did," Moira countered. "She says she came home to the sound of someone else in her house, even though you and I met with her father before we left the Yard. She called a neighbor for help, and by the time they came back, the intruder was gone - but her room had been torn apart. She thinks it was looking for her."

The emphasis Moira put on those final words sunk into Angela, a rock of dread in her chest. "You think she's the next target?"

"I told her to meet us at the Meridian Theater. I didn't feel a need to frighten her any more by telling her what she's already gleaned."

The wind blowing between the stalls of the market cut through Angela's clothes, and she felt the same sensation in her veins as before on the airplane. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat, Angela said, "Well then, let's not keep her waiting."

The underground ride was agonizing, Angela's eyes flicking towards every passing stop in a futile attempt to will the train faster. Even on the newest line, it was still ten minutes to King's Row, and the dim evening light outside wasn't nearly as inviting as before. Beside Angela, Moira's face had gone eerily calm, although Angela could see her hands rummaging through the pockets of her jacket. Come to think of it, Angela had seen her colleague tuck something inside her jacket that morning...

"Moira, is there something I should be ready for-" Her question was cut off by an automated voice announcing that they had reached the King's Row station. Angela barely even registered her feet against the platform as she and Moira moved towards the exit, breaking into a run as soon as they were free of the depot. Angela ignored the alarmed cries of several pedestrians they rushed past, forcing herself not to look as they passed the alleyway where Chloe had been killed. The red in the mural still registered in the corner of her eye.

After another two blocks, the Meridian Theater came into view, Angela reaching its steps before Moira. The timing wasn't ideal; a crowd awaiting entry to the evening show had formed outside the doors, and a pair of nearby tour buses were disembarking as well. Angela called out Lena's name to little success, hearing Moira do the same from behind her.

Standing on the steps of a nearby building, Angela tried to look out over the crowd while mentally cursing the flat shoes she had worn today. It was then that she felt it - a small, but forceful tug in her mind. The world seemed to slow around Angela as her eyes were drawn towards a narrow space between the streetlights and the glow of the theater marquee, and a brief spark of hope flared when she recognized a figure with dark brown hair who looked towards her.

Then the world felt as though it had dropped out from under Angela's feet as she recognized the man from the night before. He flashed her another sickening grin just as she heard Lena's voice call from within the crowd, "Agent Ziegler? Is that you?"

There was no time to find Moira and warn her. Angela responded, "Lena! I'm over here!", waving her arms in the direction of the girl's voice just as the man vanished into the folds of the crowd. Angela's eyes tried to follow him, but he appeared and disappeared between pedestrians in a weaving zig-zag, the intent on his face already triumphant as he closed in on the unsuspecting Lena.

Angela didn't have a choice. "Lena!" she shouted, pushing back into the cluster of people and training her eyes on a familiar paint-splattered hoodie. At the same moment, Angela heard Moira call her own name, and on instinct turned her head towards her in time to see Moira's eyes look over Angela's shoulder and widen.

Whipping back around, Angela's heart plunged into her stomach as the crowd finally cleared enough to reveal Lena - and the way her eyes glazed over in response to the man's hand landing on her shoulder. Without paying Angela or Moira any mind, Lena blankly looked up at him and began to follow him towards the darkened side street next to the theater.

Somebody's voice cried out a protestation, although Angela couldn't be certain if it was Moira's or her own. They pushed through the tourists and theatergoers that remained between them and where the man was leading Lena, Angela's blood rushing in her ears. This was their fault, the man must have been spying on them from outside the pub and seen them talking to Lena...

Moira and Angela reached the alleyway at the same time. Nobody was there.

Angela had to fight the urge to fall to her knees. It couldn't be. No person could vanish into the night air with a teenage girl in tow, just feet away from one of London's most-frequented neighborhoods.

Just like no person could hover upside down in front of a fifth-floor hotel window.

"Damn it!" Moira growled beside her. There was a horrible, hollow feeling carving up Angela's insides, and her eyes stared blankly ahead into the shadows of the alleyway. And found a piece of paper fluttering where it was attached to the one of the building walls.

Angela moved towards it with a feverish focus, tearing the paper from the brick even though she knew it was likely just some old advertisement or forgotten poster. In fact, she wasn't able to make heads or tails of the two things scrawled onto it at first.

"She is in the underworld, but she is not who we want." Moira echoed the words from behind her as Angela read them over again. Angela's eyes moved down to the series of jagged and curved lines drawn below the message, narrowing as she tried to make sense of the intended image. It almost looked like...

It was, Angela realized with a horror entirely separate from the one she should have been feeling. She barely even registered Moira's musing out loud of, "Underworld as in, Lena will be killed because we didn't bring them whoever she'll be taking the place of? Or perhaps - yes, that could be it as well."

Angela felt Moira's hand on her shoulder, and the paper slipped out of her grip as she turned. "Focus, Agent Ziegler," Moira reminded her. "There's a reason Lena wasn't killed outright the way the other four were. They want us to come after her. And they're hiding below the city."

"Wh - below the city?" Angela repeated. "You mean, in the underground tunnels?"

"Some of the disused ones, yes," Moira clarified. "During the Omnic Crisis, many of the omnic communities beneath London were evacuated, if their inhabitants weren't chased out of the city first. It's referred to as the Underworld now. Portions of it have been taken over by criminal rings, but many of the settlements are still abandoned. It's an entire labyrinth beneath the city's feet."

Angela didn't want to ask why Moira knew so much about this. But if the Irishwoman's hunch was right, then every passing second they spent within this alleyway was a narrowing window for Lena. "Contact Inspector Oxton and have him send backup," Angela said. "Do you know how we can find an entrance to this... Underworld?"

Moira nodded. "An acquaintance of mine helped me gain access to the most detailed map currently existing. According to that, the King's Row entrance is inside the old power plant, several blocks from here. Do you have it in you for some minor breaking and entering?"

"Whatever it takes," Angela said. Moira left the alleyway to send out the call for backup, and Angela was about to follow her when her eyes moved back to the paper she had let fall to the ground. After a moment, Angela knelt to pick it up, looking it over one last time before folding it inside her coat pocket.

Now that she knew what to look for, there was no mistaking the image below the ominous warning. It was drawn in black and white - but Angela knew the sight of those wings all too well, spread outwards in tawny and gold.

**King's Row Power Plant**

The power plant was cavernous in the low light, Angela painfully aware of the shadows held back only by the flashlights she and Moira had happened upon on their way in. Neither of them had decided to remark upon the fact that whoever had left the flashlights by the ajar side entrance Angela and Moira had found had never come back for them.

Moira tapped the image on the screen of her phone, and a holographic map appeared in front of them. Two glowing purple dots marked what Angela assumed was her and Moira, and not far off from where they stood blinked a matching red dot. "It should be in the closest generator room," Moira explained. "Once we're inside, I don't think you need me to tell you splitting up would be a bad idea."

"Why not just wait for Inspector Oxton?" Angela asked. "He isn't much father than we were when Lena called you."

"And lose another ten minutes?" Moira shook her head irritably. "Lena might still have time, but are you that willing to gamble it?" Angela didn't breach the subject again.

They moved in silence until their dots on the map overlapped with the marker for the generator room, which was not a room so much as a large, spherical chamber with a grid in the floor Angela supposed had once hummed with electricity at all hours of the day. Hopefully no stray sparks were still active.

She followed Moira into the antechamber at the end of the room, which contained a staircase leading up to the generator control room and a side door leading down. "This is it," Moira breathed.

"Moira," Angela began, realizing something. "How much of a fight should we be prepared for? My blaster is still in my suitcase at the hotel."

Her colleague paused, hand clasped around the door handle. Moira drew in a tense breath, but exhaled, "That's probably for the better. Mine didn't do much against the one I went up against three months ago." She reached back into her jacket, retrieving a small cylinder about quarter-meter in length. "This will suit you better. I have my own means."

Angela took the cylinder hesitantly, feeling the smooth shaft in her hands before pressing a button close to the bottom. She gasped as twin limbs sprang from its sides, while faint purple sight lines glowed to life. "This is - you've been carrying a crossbow on you all day?" Angela stammered, ignoring the way her voice echoed in the small space. "You could have been arrested! This isn't exactly an Overwatch-issued weapon!"

"The projectiles are hard light, so the recoil is minimal," was Moira's only answer. "I've found that's more effective." Before Angela could object any further, her colleague pushed the door open, both women bracing themselves for whatever could be on the other side.

Moira's flashlight beam landed on an unadorned wall, and an similar empty stairwell leading down. "Try not to shoot me through the back," she said, taking the lead as they began to descend down the narrow corridor into the bowels of the power plant - and whatever lay beneath it. Angela shut off her own flashlight, clipping it to the belt of her coat and relying on the beam from Moira's as well as the glowing sights on the crossbow. The flashlights were old models, still powered by batteries. Angela didn't feel like risking both of them running out of power at the same time.

The map on Moira's phone flickered for a moment, and the map of the power plant was replaced by a confusing weave of tunnels all overlapping one another. "Do you know where we turn once we reach the bottom?" Angela asked, barely above a whisper. Even the walls around them felt unfriendly.

"They want us to find Lena," Moira repeated. "They'll tire of watching us stumble in the dark soon enough."

Angela was about to challenge that as Moira's roundabout way of saying she had no idea, but as they came upon the first path branch, Angela felt it again - a tug like the one from outside the theater. And it was telling her to go... "Left," she said.

Moira looked over her shoulder, eyes suspicious. "What makes you so sure?"

Shrugging, Angela tried to play it off as, "Just a hunch." Which was far more likely, since for all she knew, she was sending them into unknown territory based on her own adrenaline-fueled brain imagining perceptions that didn't exist. Something about this felt stronger, though. Older.

They picked up their pace, Moira not questioning Angela again as Angela somehow knew where to lead them deeper and deeper beneath London. It was an endless intestine of corridors and stairwells, but occasionally they would pass through room-sized spaces that caused Angela twinges of guilt. She hoped whatever omnics had once lived here had been able to find safer cities after the Crisis.

The next room they came upon was not empty like the others. "Wait," Moira said as her flashlight beam revealed a table laid out with several papers, and... Moira approached the table and held up of a vial of what was unmistakably blood. "This would also match up with Lena's story," she noted. "The only question is, why keep some of it separate like this?"

Angela turned her own flashlight back on, illuminating the papers spread across the table. "And what are these?" she asked, flipping one over - only to pull her hand back from the symbol drawn onto it in what something told her wasn't ink. At a first glance, it was similar to an upside-down pentagram, although smaller circles extended from each of the five tips. Inside the circles were what looked to be titles.

"The Duelist? The Seer? The Summoner? The Huntress?" Angela read out loud. For some reason, simply lowering her eyes to the one written at the bottom tip was enough to make her blood run cold. "The Reaper."

She exchanged a glance with Moira, who looked just as troubled by the contents of whatever paper she had been reading. Her colleague opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, a shout rang out from somewhere close by. "Someone, help!" Lena's voice called.

Angela tightened her grip on the crossbow as she and Moira took off running towards Lena, Angela no longer even needing the insistent thread in her mind pulling her forward - although it was certainly stronger than before. She wanted to shout some kind of reassurance to Lena that she wasn't alone in the dark, but there was no chance they weren't in enemy territory by now. If their presence wasn't somehow already known, the element of surprise might be the only thing Angela and Moira had on their side.

They emerged into a wide space much like the generator room somewhere above them. "Agent Ziegler? Agent O'Deorain?" Lena's voice asked from... above them?

Moira shone her flashlight beam upwards, where Lena hung upside-down, but seemingly unhurt, from some kind of snare. Lena's eyes widened as she said, "It is you! I've been trying to get down from here ever since whatever that creep did to me outside the theater wore off. My back is probably gonna kill me from all the curl-ups."

"Lena, where are the others? The man who took you?" Angela asked as Moira retrieved a small knife from yet another pocket (note to self, Angela thought, keep tabs on exactly how many illicit weapons Moira owned) and tossed it up to Lena. As Lena began to cut through the ties around her ankles, the hairs on the back of Angela's neck stood up, and she turned towards the opposite end of the room.

It was the man who had dogged their every step through London, not at all alarmed over the sight of Moira and Angela. A low hiss came from his mouth, reverberating in the hollow space of the room until it sounded as though a harsh rain was falling. "Just as we had hoped," he said in a low, raspy voice with a glance that was all for Angela. "Welcome, Elisabeth."

"Elisabeth?" Angela asked. "You seem to have me mistaken for someone else."

That seemed to amuse the man. "You don't know, then? Or is this some attempt at a bluff on your part?" He once again moved faster than should have been possible, and Angela pulled the trigger on the crossbow more instinctively than with any clear aim. A bolt of purple light flew across the room and dispersed against the wall the man had been standing in front of a moment earlier.

"Over here," his voice slithered from behind Angela and Moira, somehow. The flare went off in Angela's mind, and she whirled to the side just in time to avoid the man's hand lunging past her face. Angela registered a second humanoid shape blurring from the shadows of the room, and shouted a warning at Moira to watch out before preparing to engage the first man.

"Is there a reason you've been following me ever since I arrived here?" Angela asked as she faced the man. "Why involve an innocent girl to get to me? Who am I to you?"

The man tried to swipe at her again, and Angela held up the crossbow to protect her face. She cried out as it was torn from her grip, sliding away from her across the floor. Angela's mind fought to recall the hand-to-hand combat she had been taught years ago in Overwatch basic training. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of Moira engaging the other figure - a woman, based on a laugh too high-pitched to be Moira's.

Angela's first strike was panicked, and sloppy as a result. The man slid out of its way with liquid ease, aiming for Angela's exposed left side. Angela barely jumped out of the way in time, and the man moved with her, using the momentum from his failed blow to carry him in the same direction as Angela. _"Come on, Ziegler!"_ Angela could hear her former instructor shouting in her mind. _"Doctors aren't much use when they're out of commission themselves!"_

The man's strikes were well-aimed, but he seemed to be holding himself back despite his clear advantage. Angela had enough time to wonder if he was waiting for Moira to go down first, before she watched the man open his palm and seemingly gather the shadows from around him. Trick of the light or no, Angela scrambled to get out of his reach, only for her shoulder to slam against the wall. Damn it. He had been backing her into a corner all along.

Moira gave a cry of pain from the other side of the room, the narrow beam of her flashlight long since thrown across the floor. And now that the man had Angela right where he wanted her, he was savoring the moment, advancing on her slowly as he had the night before.

Angela didn't dare close her eyes, but she tried to locate the source of Moira's voice over its ricocheting echo. As she thought this, a smoky purple tendril shot from the man's palm, weaving through the air before spiraling around Angela's torso. It didn't deal her a physical wound, but Angela sucked in a sharp breath as a rushing sound filled her ears, and her legs began to give out.

The crash of her knees against the cold metal floor sent a wave of pain through Angela's body, but it was enough to break whatever grip the man held on her. Keeping low, Angela gritted her teeth against her still-protesting muscles and ran beneath the man's grip. An inhuman snarl tore from his throat, and he tackled Angela's legs before she was clear of him, sending them both to the floor. He was trying to pin her one way or another, Angela thought, but two could play at that game.

Angela's ponytail had come loose in the fighting, and she was glad for it, because her hair made it more difficult for the man to have a clear strike at her face. They grappled hands and arms, legs and feet, each roll of one's body carrying them both in another direction. But Angela was succeeding on that front, and they were close to the center of the room now.

""Nothing you do can surprise me, Elisabeth," the man said, eyes glinting in the dark just inches from Angela's face. "I am bound to The Seer. Even if you will not use your own, my gift allows me to know every possible move you could make in this fight!" Angela forced herself to tune him out, ignore the way his incisors seemed to be lengthening as he opened his mouth. She looked past him - at what was above them.

She had just enough time to brace herself before an unexpected weight slammed onto both her and the man, wringing a cry of surprise from him. Angela pushed upwards, as Lena shouted from on top of them, "This is for killing my friend, you tosser!" She raised Moira's knife that she had cut herself free with into the air, slamming the blade into the center of the man's back.

The effect was immediate. Angela shoved the man off of her as he froze, ordering, "Get back!" at Lena when he started to seize on the ground. His body arched into an impossible U shape, its apex where the knife was still buried below his shoulders. Angela had half a thought to cover Lena's eyes as the man's veins bulged from his hands, his mouth parting in a soundless scream. Then he fell to the floor. Even in true death, his body made no sound.

There was no time to process what had just happened. "Agent Ziegler!" she heard Moira shout from behind them. Angela turned her flashlight on, casting the beam frantically until it found where the crossbow had been knocked from her hands.

"Stay right here," Angela ordered Lena as she picked the weapon up, reactivating its sights. "Moira!" she called, running towards the sound of her colleague's fight. Angela set the flashlight on the ground, yelling, "Lead her over to the beam!"

A flicker at the corner of her vision was Angela's only warning to prepare. She lowered herself to one knee, finger on the trigger of the crossbow, and let it fire as Moira and her adversary fell across the light. There was another purple flash, and a cry of pain. Angela's heart lurched, terrified she had accidentally struck Moira.

But it was the other woman whose leg had been pierced by the crossbow's hard light, and she collapsed, shrieking as she tried to paw at the bolt still embedded in her skin. Moira seized the opportunity, straddling the woman and raising both arms above her head. It took Angela a moment to make out what the small, pointed object in Moira's hands was - and she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her mouth as Moira savagely drove the stake into the woman's chest.

Her death was similar. When the theatrics of it had passed, Angela shakily stood and walked over to where Moira still had not moved, lowering her hand onto the Irishwoman's shoulder with a touch of tentativeness. "Moira?" Angela prompted. "It's over. Lena is safe. We should go, now."

Moira looked up at her with a blank expression. "Agent Ziegler," she said again. Then a small laugh. "It seems I stand corrected. That, or you had an extremely lucky shot." She shook Angela off as she got back to her feet, picking up her own flashlight and casting it in Lena's direction. "How are you holding up?" she asked the girl.

Lena shrugged, although the casualness of the gesture couldn't quite hide the ragged breaths behind her statement of, "I'm alright. Ah - Do you want your knife back?"

As she moved her flashlight's beam past Lena, Angela didn't think she imagined the small intake of breath Moira drew in when it illuminated the man's body. Without comment, Moira walked over to it and pulled the blade out of the man's back. Lena flinched at the sound, and Angela wrapped a comforting arm around her. Now that she was coming down from the adrenaline, Lena was probably beginning to comprehend all of what had just happened.

"Let's go," Angela said, to both Moira and Lena. "I don't think there's anything else for us down here."

**Inspector Oxton's office, Scotland Yard**

Captain Amari's face frowned from the hologram Angela and Moira had called her on. "What you two say you witnessed - of course, we'll have to wait and see if the bodies are identified. But several aspects of this report's credibility seem rather unsupportable."

"I understand, Captain," Angela nodded. "I'll make sure the official write-up is more objective, and we should know more by then. I don't think either of us has gone so far as to draw any conclusions about what we've seen, though." She said this with an edge to her voice that she doubted Moira could have missed.

"Very well, then," Captain Amari sighed. "I'll be expecting you two back in Zurich." The holo-call shut off before Angela could say anything more.

"She's not the only one who's going to be wanting answers," Moira said as Angela slumped in her chair. "Once Inspector Oxton can be separated from Lena for longer than two minutes, I expect he'll be after our statements as well." When Angela's only response was a weary rubbing at her temples, Moira continued down a different vein of conversation.

"That man... he kept calling you Elisabeth. Do you know why?"

Angela shook her head. "I don't know anyone named Elisabeth. And I have no idea why he was so hell-bent on getting to me."

It was not the first lie she had told Moira so far. It would not be the last.

**Zurich, Switzerland**

Moira O'Deorain entered her apartment without much sentimentality. The neutral-colored walls which she could never quite deduce were yellow or brown greeted her more on the side of brown today, the shades by her desk drawn against the sunlight. Moira knew she should try and make herself look somewhat presentable before going in to meet with Amari, but her reputation would still precede her. She might as well give the people what they wanted.

She set her laptop on her desk, sending a concise thank-you to the newest decoy email she had been sent just before its predecessor account had self-destructed. The map hadn't done her much good, thanks to Agent Ziegler's uncanny sense of direction, but it would be harder the next time Moira needed something if she couldn't be bothered to follow up with her gratitude. Sincerity was beside the point.

With that done, Moira finally shrugged off the jacket she had spent close to the last 24 hours in and pushed open the door to her room. Most of the materials she had been keeping within the jacket's inner pockets had been confiscated in the aftermath of the power plant, much to her chagrin. Not that Moira didn't have a backup cache here, but finding a replacement for that crossbow might be harder.

Moira slept on her couch now. About four months ago, the sheer amount of equipment - scientific and otherwise - she kept in here had grown to dominate the space. Moira walked over to a desk containing all manner of beakers and test tubes, most of which were empty. It took her a moment to locate, as the tube rack she was seeking had been pushed close to the wall since the last time she had inspected it, half-hidden by a stack of Moira's own notes.

Sliding the only tube inhabiting it so far out of the rack, Moira held it up to the light, retrieving the vial of blood she had slipped from the room beneath the power plant. When she compared the two side-by-side, there was no doubt. The vials were of the same make.

But the creature she had retrieved this first one from had been stalking the streets of Cairo. Moira was a scientist, and she knew far better than to chalk this up to coincidence - especially since she still hadn't been able to identify what the vials were made of.

Whatever mysteries were to be unraveled regarding Agent Ziegler took the backseat to this. Moira wondered sometimes what Amélie would make of the state Moira had put herself in, what little regard she had previously felt for her own reputation now entirely forgotten in the name of the truth. If Amélie could somehow know what Moira had done over the past year.

She still had time before her and Agent Ziegler's meeting with Amari. Unstopping the vial of blood, Moira poured a sample under her microscope and set to work.


	4. Hocus Pocus - Part 1

### "Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us."

**Overwatch relief center, eastern Europe**

_Panicked shouts rang through the night air, the central building in a state of chaos. Civilians and field doctors alike raced through the courtyard of the complex, paying little mind to the biting January wind in their bids to save as much and as many as they could._

__

_Angela had to be pulled away from the window by her mother, fear stealing the girl's ability to speak even as she was unable to tear her eyes from the frenzy unfolding on the ground. “Remember the drills, Angela?” she heard her mother prompt her._

__

_The words rang empty in her mind before a memory associated with them, spurring Angela somewhat robotically to action. Her mother took Angela’s place at the window as Angela retrieved a small backpack from beneath the couch she had been sleeping on for the past several days. Ilse Ziegler muttered a word under her breath that Angela would have received a week’s grounding for saying out loud._

__

_The Omnic Crisis had not yet stained the tapestry of international affairs; tonight’s attack was owed to a conflict of human greed which cared not for the civilians trapped in its crossfire. This was Angela’s third time joining her parents in Overwatch relief efforts. The first two missions had been far from combat, in areas stricken by poverty and disease, but not immediate bloodshed._

__

_This time, Angela’s father had at first contacted his sister in Prague about letting Angela stay with her. Only when that failed to pan out had Angela been allowed to come along. Initially, Angela had resented the thought that her parents no longer believed her responsible enough. Now, she understood why they had been worried._

__

_Nathan Ziegler had been among the first to respond when the communicator lit up with the bomb threat, and had spared only a quick embrace for his daughter and wife. Ilse had worried he would question why she didn't want to go with him, but they had both agreed Angela’s safety was the utmost priority. If safety was even a concept that existed for them. And even if Ilse had her own definition of what that meant._

__

_Turning, she saw a wide-eyed Angela ready to go. “Alright,” Ilse said, holding out her hand. "Stay close to me. I don't want to lose sight of you until they sound the all-clear siren-"_

____

_A momentary whistling noise was the only warning they received. A blinding flash lit up the night as a bomb struck the courtyard, followed by a BOOM that left Angela clapping her hands over her ears in vain. Ilse threw herself over her daughter as the window shattered, the shards of glass that lodged in her back and legs nothing compared to the void she felt tear open in her chest. It didn't matter that she hadn't seen it, Ilse had other ways of knowing that instant had been her husband's last._

____

_The bells of Notre Dame were ringing inside Ilse's head, Angela's body shuddering as her daughter sobbed beneath her. This time, Ilse felt the ice flood her veins, her warning in place of whistling that another bomb was hurtling towards the unshielded building. Ilse raised her head, forcing her heart to harden at the thought that she and Angela would not survive this. Because that was not right. Only Ilse would not._

____

_Ilse felt the magic where it pooled in her chest, where it slept more than it used to. A hundred pieces of golden stardust, becoming a thousand, a million as she forced them to wake up. The bomb detonated through the complex as Ilse forced her own power outwards, draining her body - and glad for it when she opened her eyes to the sight of the translucent sphere that had formed around her and Angela. Time slowed to hour-long seconds as she lowered her head and kissed Angela's neck._

____

_"I love you,_ mein kleine hexe. _And so I bless you. With all the power of those who came before us."_

____

____

_No sooner had the words left Ilse's mouth did the blast tear through her._

__

Angela's eyes snapped open, her body curling up defensively. The dream blurred with reality as she mistook the blanket draped over her body to be her own mother, shielding Angela with the last of her strength. Roughly shaking the fabric off, Angela rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling and trying to calm her breathing.

__

It had been almost a year since her last nightmare of that severity. Just as it came every year, a reminder from Angela's own subconscious that her anniversary of becoming an orphan was close at hand. Angela had visited with a therapist afterwards, in Prague - they had talked through survivor's guilt, coping methods, ways Angela could remember her parents without letting their ghosts shackle her every step. But sometimes a nightmare wanted to be had.

__

A light flashed in the corner of Angela's eye. Turning her head, she stifled a gasp as she sat up. She was still dreaming, she had to be.

__

There was no other way her mother could be sitting across from her in Angela's apartment, a soft golden aura radiating from her body. Ilse Ziegler opened her mouth, blue eyes filled with sadness as she looked upon the woman her daughter had grown into. It seemed like she was trying to form words, but no sound came from her throat.

__

"Mo - mom?" Angela whispered, unconsciously slipping back into the German of her childhood. "How... how are you here?" She lowered one foot to the floor, feeling the carpet bunch beneath her toes. This was a high amount of sensory stimulation for a dream, she faintly noted. "Is Dad with you?"

__

Ilse still gave no answer, although it didn't look to be for lack of trying. Frustration crossing her face, she made a violent gesture with her hand towards her chest, before pushing that same hand back out towards Angela. Her daughter froze in place, clenching her robe tighter around her. The sound of her phone vibrating against her bedside table distracted Angela long enough to tear her gaze away from the specter of Ilse, to register Moira's name flashing alongside a new message, and that one moment was all it took. The light vanished, along with her mother's form.

__

"Wait!" Angela cried out, stumbling towards the chair that Ilse had been sitting in. "Mom!"

__

Her hands passed through thin air.

__


	5. Hocus Pocus - Part 2

### "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

**The Basement**

Angela entered the office to what had already become her customary sight of Moira hunched over her desk, engrossed in whatever book or file currently held her attention (yesterday, it had been _Orlando_ ). A shimmering guitar riff played from Moira's computer, the presence of background music an indication to Angela that the Irishwoman was, as she put it, "intellectually engaged". Nevertheless, Angela couldn't resist joking as she peered over Moira's shoulder, "An interesting music choice for Virginia Woolf."

Moira looked up, face unmoved. "You look tired, Ziegler."

Ziegler. That was new.

"Well, a certain someone did send me several urgent-flagged messages at four in the morning," Angela countered. There was absolutely no chance that she was telling Moira about... whatever Angela's vision of Ilse had been. "Several incredibly vague urgent-flagged messages, at that."

"Forgive me for considering you might want some primer material," Moira said, setting her book aside and opening up a nearby file covered in her handwriting's scrawl. "Two days ago, a pair of students attending the University of Melbourne were reported missing. Foul play is more than suspected." This much, Angela had gleaned from the chain of one and two-sentence messages that Moira had sent her earlier. They had been partnered for several weeks now, and if Angela hadn't witnessed it herself that first night in London, she would have wondered if Moira ever slept.

Moira pointed a purple talon of a fingernail to several pictures of one of the student's cars, particularly its shattered window and the blood sprayed across the front seat. "This disappearance falls on the anniversary of a two-person abduction last year at Monash University. One week later, both students' bodies were found butchered and gutted like fish, at least partially while they had been alive." The rush of discomfort that ran through Angela wasn't owed so much to the photos of the bodies as it was the unmoved way that Moira delivered this statement, like it was a passing comment on the weather. Angela had worked with desensitized doctors before, although she had never let herself believe the circumstances that greeted her on Overwatch assignments to be the way of the world. How far gone had Moira been led by her own work, though?

"No arrests were ever made," Moira continued. "Until the link to the date was correlated, the police had believed it to be a one-time incident."

"And now that it's not, they want outside help," Angela concluded. She frowned as she asked, "So if this is a serial offender, we only have five days to find the students alive? That's not much."

"That's not the only less-than-ideal deadline we have to contend with," Moira said, opening a drawer in her desk and removing a significantly thicker file. Angela had no idea why Moira preferred hard copies of everything when they took up so much _space_. Even with just a quick scan of the office, Angela could pick out several large amounts room that would be less cluttered were Moira to go digital.

Still, Angela recognized both of the names attached to this second file. "Tekhartha Zenyatta?" she questioned. "I thought Agent Shimada brought him in a month ago. What does he have to do with this?"

"Almost a month ago," Moira corrected her. "But one month is all the amount of time Overwatch was granted to hold Zenyatta before they'll have to release him back to the Shambali. Which would be of little concern to us, were it not for the fact that Zenyatta claims to have information about our new serial. He described one of the abductees down to her nose piercing. I reinforce the fact that Zenyatta has spent the last three weeks inside an Overwatch holding cell, and before that, the mountains of Nepal."

"That doesn't mean he couldn't have been in league with this. Somehow." Even as Angela said the words, she knew that it was a stretch, but this banter system had been her idea - consider everything.

"Zenyatta claims to have reached a level of enlightenment beyond even that of his former order," Moira said, and Angela was surprised to hear a note of skepticism in her colleague's voice. "He was cast out of the Shambali for rejecting their belief in the Iris, instead embracing a call he refers to as the Abyss. And it was the Abyss that, for some mysterious reason, decided to bestow upon him a vision of our victims." Now the contempt in Moira's voice was unmistakable.

Pulling up the second chair that had finally been brought down to the office, Angela sat across from Moira, intrigued by her colleague's dismissive tone. "I have to say I'm surprised, Moira," she said. "I would have thought an omnic cultist to be exactly your department."

Moira rolled her eyes. "I was consulted on the matter when Zenyatta was brought in. I even spoke with him. Putting aside my doubt in the entire Iris business to begin with, I find it much more likely that Zenyatta will say anything to avoid returning to the Shambali. I believe there are forces in this world greater than you or I, Ziegler, but the Abyss that Zenyatta speaks of is far too broad in definition for my tastes. To use layman's terms, I find it to be little more than some Lovecraftian hocus pocus."

"So then, Zenyatta somehow orchestrated a kidnapping on another continent?" Angela asked, raising her eyebrows. 

"He was put on Blackwatch's watchlist for a reason," Moira countered. "His sacrifices to his Abyss started small - animals in the mountains. Then lost hikers who would turn up mad and rambling in unidentifiable languages, several of whom died from the effects of exposure." Moira flipped open Agent Shimada's case report. "Finally, the death of a Shambali monk who attempted to stop Zenyatta. Even a peaceful order such as the Shambali cannot overlook such an offense when it was committed by one of their own."

Angela felt a dark curiosity as she scanned through the file, intrigued against her better judgement. The concept of this Abyss that Zenyatta spoke of, as little documentation of it existed, left Angela with a feeling too similar to seeing her mother's image the night before for her to dismiss. "And Overwatch still thinks you would stand a better chance at profiling him?"

Standing, Moira turned towards the door. "Actually, Zenyatta requested to speak to me. Despite the fact that Agent Shimada spent a much longer time on this case, Zenyatta seems to believe after our first meeting that I am the one the Abyss meant for him to find."

"Let me go with you, then," Angela requested. "If Captain Amari signed off on it, this technically counts as an assignment."

Moira looked her over again, closer than before. "Are you certain you're up for it?" she asked. "You seem on edge."

Was she that easy to read, Angela wondered? Closing her eyes and breathing in, she let the possible receptions Moira might grant the story of Ilse's visitation run through her mind. No, none of them were discussions Angela wanted to have right now.

"It's nothing that getting some work done won't help," Angela insisted, unable to keep the tightness out of her voice. Moira kept her gaze fixed on Angela for another moment, but didn't press the topic as they exited the office.

Angela looked down at Zenyatta's file, still in her hands. Her eyes fell to Agent Shimada's notes. _"Zenyatta claims that the Abyss, among other abilities, grants him communication with the deceased."_

Snapping the file shut, Angela forced her mind to clear as she followed Moira into the elevator.

**Overwatch Holding Cells**

Tekhartha Zenyatta looked just like any omnic from the footage of the Shambali that Angela had seen - save for the sickly green light emanating from him, casting neon shadows across the walls of the small holding cell. It couldn't all be coming from the sensory grid on his head, she thought. The light... oozed from Zenyatta. That was the only way to describe it.

No sooner had they entered the cell did the omnic speak, "The being of Tekhartha Zenyatta is one with the Abyss. The Shadows claim him now."

Moira sat before him, unimpressed. "The Shadows? That's a new addition."

Zenyatta made no movement, but Angela could have sworn the glow around him darkened just a touch. "The dead. The living. All souls are born in the Shadows, but few return once the light of the Iris leads them astray."

"And you're their chosen conduit?" Moira asked.

Angela's work with Overwatch hadn't brought her into contact with omnics very often. Staring at Zenyatta, she had no idea how she was supposed to read him; if Moira somehow did or if she too could only follow his verbal cues. It was little wonder Zenyatta had been able to lead previous questionings in circles.

"Moira O'Deorain," Zenyatta said. "Angela Ziegler." Angela couldn't help but jump as the omnic spoke her name. "Understand that from here, we can return to the past. We can see the present. We can know the future."

"And where exactly is 'here'?" Moira pressed. "The Abyss? The lair of the Shadows?"

The light radiating from Zenyatta returned to normal, although that was hardly saying much considering the green pallor it still cast across Angela's skin. "You believe that Zenyatta has committed transgressions," the omnic said. "What redemption do you have in mind?"

"I couldn't care less what happens to you," Moira scoffed, standing from her chair. "The Shambali can seal you away underneath their mountain and I won't think twice."

Angela hadn't been certain how much emotion Zenyatta was capable of expressing, until his response to that statement was an urgent, "No." It got Moira's attention as well. Angela could see her mind at work as Zenyatta continued, "I would like to extend my time here in exchange for my assistance with your current case, Moira O'Deorain. I am not requesting physical freedom. The roamings embarked upon by my consciousness are all that I need to locate the students."

"I need proof you're telling the truth first," Moira said, but Angela didn't think she was imagining the spark of curiosity behind her colleague's dual-colored eyes. Angela felt it, too - so much that she barely even breathed as Moira removed a scrap of dark fabric from the file on the missing students. Passing it towards Zenyatta, Moira challenged, "Make me believe."

Zenyatta lifted the fabric cyber-kinetically at first, letting it float between his cupped hands as he nodded his head towards it. "There is pain attached to the holder of this," he decreed. Moira leaned forward, a small smile beginning to play on her face as Zenyatta's palms clapped together.

"They are unable to use their hands," Zenyatta continued, the fabric snaking out from between his fingers. The omnic draped the fabric over the sensory grid on his head, a shudder running through his body. "They have been sliced with multiple objects. The person you want views them as less than garbage." 

Without warning, Zenyatta dropped the cloth, the shudders running through his frame growing more violent. And a sound came from him.

All Angela had to cling to was the file in her hands as that scream which was not a scream came from Zenyatta. No, it was a perversion of a scream - a person's cry wrung through a machine, corrupted with white noise, falling off into a glitch of a whimper. Even the lights on Zenyatta's sensory grid blinked frantically as he managed the words, "Darkness. Cold. A forgotten place. An angel of stone."

A series of whirs came from the omnic's body, straightening it back into his former position. Had whatever that was almost overloaded him, Angela thought with horror?

The room was silent following Zenyatta's display, until Moira walked to where the fabric had fallen and picked it up. She faced Zenyatta with a smirk as it dangled from her palm, saying, "I tore this off an old jacket of mine. It has nothing to do with _my_ case." She left the cell without another word.

Hardly desiring to be left alone with Zenyatta, Angela turned to follow her colleague when Zenyatta spoke to her again. "Angela Ziegler."

"What is it?" she asked, working to mask the tremor in her voice.

Angela could have sworn Zenyatta scrutinized her before saying, "The Abyss knows you. It wishes for me to deliver a message. Why do you reject its call, _mein kleine hexe_?"

No. Moira had said it herself, Zenyatta would do anything to win over someone in Overwatch. But how could the ghost of Ilse Ziegler be speaking through his voice?

Storming out of the cell, Angela nearly walked right into Moira in the hallway. Her colleague picked up on Angela's tension immediately. "What is it? Did Zenyatta say something to you?"

Angela quickly shook her head. "No," she denied. "It's like you said - I'm just tired. That wasn't quite what I was expecting."

"Yes, that act even caught me by surprise," Moira grimaced. "But Tekhartha Zenyatta is nothing more than a rogue omnic hiding behind well-woven words of his own design, and at worst may have orchestrated a kidnapping. Now that he knows we're on to him, it will only be a matter of time." Unexpectedly, her voice lost its edge as she said, "You can go home and get some rest if you would like, Ziegler. I'll wait another hour or two and see if Zenyatta tries a new narrative. You don't need to be a part of it."

Normally, Angela would have insisted she could power through, but she felt her already-frayed nerves dangerously close to a breaking point. "Thank you, Moira. I think I'll do that."

When she entered her apartment, Angela set the files on her coffee table with an increasing sense of numbness. Despite Moira's confidence that Zenyatta was a fraud, Angela couldn't stop hearing the omnic's final statement in her mind. How could he have known the words of a women who had been dead for almost fifteen years?

Angela's eyes were once more drawn to the chair Ilse's specter had appeared in the night before. Pulling the blanket off her bed, Angela draped it around her shoulders and curled up in the chair, inhaling the scent of the fabric for any trace of the perfume her mother had worn. Nothing. Weary, Angela closed her eyes.

That did not mean sleep would come.

**Author's Note:**

> This will have a very sporadic update schedule since I have other multichaps with higher priority, but I want to see how far I can take this.


End file.
